


Falling Away With You

by aobaethebae



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Jealous Sherlock, John is a Saint, M/M, Mary never happened, Memory Loss, Old Husbands, POV John Watson, Pining John Watson, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes's Retirement, Sherlock has moods, road to recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-23
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:44:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aobaethebae/pseuds/aobaethebae
Summary: John and Sherlock have been married for nearly 50 years and John does not regret a single moment of it. Throughout all the changes and renovations, they never left 221B and soon became its proud owners. However, for Sherlock, moments do not come easily anymore after he was diagnosed. As his carer, John works hard to fill the gaps without hurting him emotionally......but it was a bigger challenge than he had ever thought it would be.





	1. Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! Here I am again, giving in to urges to write about memory loss and Sherlock once again. :)  
> Y'all know this is going to be angsty so prepare to get a little teary along the way.  
> Each chapter name represents a key item, also. This story will only have three chapters as the various stages of their relationship as an older couple. 
> 
> (Written while listening to Falling Away With You by Muse)

“I’m not sure what you’re doing here.”

“What do you mean?”

“Taking up after me. Your husband will probably get jealous.”

John tilted his head for just a moment, eyes narrowing slightly in a questioning manner, flanked by heavy crows’ feet that were already developing since he had hit 30. He had just bent over to pick up some broadsheets from the ground, obviously wrenched from their collective newspapers by the man before him.

He stared at those beautifully dark silver curls, they were never quite white and still closer to the dark brown hue they used to be. Bright icy eyes regarded him for a moment, glancing down at John’s wrinkled left hand where a thick gold ring sat comfortably.

“He seems the jealous type. Probably keeps tabs on you.” Sherlock added as-a-matter-of-factly, the deep baritone of his voice still reverberating even when his speech was slow at a times.

With a wry chuckle, John averted his gaze away from his husband and to the wall, gathering his thoughts.

“He actually is, he would fret knowing I was looking after an older gentleman like you.” The once-blonde cracked a small smile.

“I try to be more than a gentleman, I’m trying to be a handsome one for you.”

John could feel his chest tightening as he forgot to breathe, staring at the confident smirk that shaped Sherlock’s lips. The years had not changed the smile of the man he loved so dearly and he was thankful for that.

“Quit it, you.” Dismissively waving his hand, John turned away and rolled his eyes, blushing a little more than he would have liked to. He then walked over to the bin and shoved the papers inside. The floor would be clean for now, and even if they had cleaners over every week, John knew Sherlock could lay waste to the floor in just a matter of minutes. He could not wait a week.

Once he heard the footsteps fading away from his direction, John then turned back to see Sherlock approaching the dining table for the third time today. He leaned over the sleek microscope and looked into the eyepiece for a good minute. John guessed it was probably the second week he had been looking at the same strain of amoeba, making the same notations.

His thoughts were confirmed when his husband opened his laptop to type down whatever he had observed, only to stop and stare at the words on the screen that he was meant to type.

“Absurd.” Sherlock murmured to himself, slamming the laptop closed and pushing it away across the table. He turned the microscope off and reached beside it some centimetres away for the familiar gold ring John recognised straight immediately, slipping it onto his left ring finger before stomping to the kitchen. It didn’t faze him in the least, if anything, sudden bursts of such moods was a constant normalcy in his life, a sign that everything was as usual.

John quickly followed him, ready to help him make tea before he accidentally used a tiny sealed specimen again as a tea bag. Pacing over to the kitchen counter, John paused once he was faced by a critical Sherlock who was eyeing him up and down.

“What? Sherlock?”

As slow as Sherlock’s legs had become, his blue eyes still jumped from one detail to the next at lightning speed.

“…you’ve lived here with a spouse for at least three decades, to the point you are subconsciously matching your jumpers to the colours of the wallpaper. The slight rigid quality to your shoulders suggest you spent a brief time in the military in your youth, deployed overseas somewhere…”

“..where?”

John waited for it, meeting that gaze with his own with as much courage as he could muster. Maybe this time.

Now it was Sherlock’s turn to narrow his eyes during their moment of silence. 

“…do you know if this house still has Earl Grey?”

Immediately looking down to the floor then the counter, John decisively stepped forward and opened the cupboards below to take out their jar of tea bags. Coordinated by colour, thankfully. His own movements felt a little too fast. Not today.

“We do, we definitely do.” He pursed his lips as he set up the kettle to boil and dropped the correct tea bag into a mug.

Suddenly, there was a buzz at his pocket. A call, judging by how it kept vibrating. John looked to his husband and pointed to the jug. “Just pour the water after it’s done, okay? Can you do that, Sherlock?”

“Of course I can, I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you’re not. Sugar packet is just there, and the milk capsule is in the fridge. I’ll be back.” Once Sherlock nodded, John walked out to the stairway and answered the phone with a heavy sigh. He already had a feeling of who the caller would be. He sat down on one of the steps, his legs were already starting to ache from just standing in the living room earlier and observing his husband.

Even when the voice shook at times, John could still hear the bitter satisfaction in it and he hated it.

“They offer live-in options throughout the week.”

“What?”

“Glendale Private. The one in the North York Moors. You can still see him most of the week, John.”  

“How about you go there and don’t go back? I think I’d like that.” John tried not to curse on the phone.

“You know where this is heading.”

“Shove Glendale up yours, Mycroft.”


	2. Cigarette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's everyday life with Sherlock is definitely wonderful but sometimes...things prove to be a real struggle. Emotions come out strongly. Little irritations. Deep thoughts.
> 
> I'm back from the holidays with a brand new chapter! We do a little bit of time travelling to the not so recent past, when all of this first started. There's still plenty of feels to go around, but some progress is on the horizon.
> 
> (Written while listening to Only Hope by Switchfoot)

“The proper diagnosis is Alzheimer’s disease.”

“Dementia, basically.”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes.”

The doctor opened an envelope with Sherlock’s brain scans and handed it to John so he could take them out and examine them himself. The years had not dulled his medicinal knowledge very much, even though his expertise in the brain was minimal. 

John’s jaw tightened when he saw the first scan, the larger ventricles where the cells had been lost and degenerating were clear. He didn’t need to be a neurosurgeon to know that, even the doctor only nodded in confirmation, their understanding was mutual and he didn’t really need to tell John anymore.

He turned to his side, where Sherlock was staring straight at his scans, eyes narrowing slightly as he examined each page thoroughly. It was one of those rare instances where John could not tell what expression his husband was wearing, the closest comparison would be as to when he would look up at his mind map on the living room wall. Analysing. Processing. Sometimes John wondered what it felt like to be putting all those facts together, possibly in a mind palace. 

The doctor cleared his throat and John flinched, realising that they were starting to take up more of his time. “Yes, well, thank you, Doctor.” He forced a smile on his lips as the doctor handed them another slip. “Here is the first prescription, I suggest starting your husband on Exelon for the moment and we will see if we need to progress further down the stages..”

Sherlock did not say another word for that whole day.

 

—

 

“Hey!"

“None of this! I said none of this!” John hissed as he wrenched three cigarettes all at the same time from Sherlock’s mouth. 

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“I think I have definitely a lot more reason to be!" John quipped back at Sherlock with an annoyed frown as he made his way to the toilet as quickly as he could, flushing the cigarette sticks down the toilet. 

“I’ll ask for another home carer!”

“Well then, go and bloody ask.” He glared at his taller husband for two full seconds, making Sherlock draw back and flinch before huffing and walking out to their balcony. A quaint, little balcony that was a much more recent addition to 221B but a decision that had been favoured by both parties.

Somewhat frantic, John could feel his forehead becoming permanently crinkled and heavily set as he scoured through the living room. He lifted the pillows, checked the gaps and even when it was just irritating for his back, he got down on the floor and looked under tables and chairs.

If there were cigarettes, then there was definitely a whole pack somewhere. John silently cursed at himself, knowing that somehow Sherlock had found a way to buy cigarettes again. They always went out together and he had made sure that there would be no chances for him to buy cigarettes, so there had to be some poor soul that was either bribed or threatened with information to get him a pack. He decided he would find out who that was later and investigate it himself.

John bit his lip when he finally found the cigarette carton, a small one that had been fitted perfectly into the battery compartment of their laptop, which was still running merely because it was connected to the charger on the wall. The battery was nowhere to be found, which would only make using it a pain later for John. “Clever bastard.” He muttered to himself, without any real hatred in his words as he flushed that carton in the toilet as well.

Now, to his husband.

Approaching the balcony, John saw Sherlock diligently watering the small row of daffodils they were growing in a rectangular planter hanging on the rails. John knew there was a fifty-fifty chance that his husband was still upset over having his cigarettes taken away and he would have to return to the patches. 

“Well I’ll get some patches at the chemist this afternoon.” John said, settling next to him, taking the time to observe the clouds outside. They were a little grey but nonetheless the sun seemed to peek out every few minutes to bring some light. 

Over the decades, Sherlock’s attachment to nicotine came and went. There were years he didn’t need any at all and some periods it would return with a vengeance, but John didn’t really mind switching  from patch brand to patch brand. Even then, he sometimes let him have his smoke, but now that really wasn’t an option for their age.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, seemingly in deep contemplative silence as he set the watering can down. John smiled softly, knowing it was a sign that really, all was well and there were no grudges being held. Not any big ones anyway. 

“Will you still call the agency for another carer?” He asked almost teasingly.

“No, definitely not.” Was Sherlock’s resolute reply. 

Not that John was afraid, after the first two times Sherlock had made the threat, he realised it was merely a red herring to make him feel like bending to his husband’s will. 

The silence simply continued, and as there were no small cases or any ongoing experiments John knew Sherlock was simply swimming within his own thoughts, he thought it best to let him muse. He would wait when Sherlock was ready to say something.

“…I know I am doing something wrong.”

“What?”

“I am making plenty of grave errors.”

“What errors? You just finished the watering for the daffodils, they’re doing great.”

“I must be doing you wrong.” 

“What do you mean?”

John tilted his head slightly to get a better look at his husband, but with the clouds hiding the sun for those few moments, the best he could get was a profile. He watched Sherlock’s nose bridge wrinkled as he looked down and stared hard at the railing. The railing he was clutching a little too tightly. 

“I know I’m hurting you. You always look hurt.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is truly clever, despite how old he gets, what will he discover next?
> 
> What do you all think? Let me know of your thoughts (and feels)!


	3. Phone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The stresses are mounting and even Sherlock can feel the strain John experiences from his duty of care. Will it be time for him to give in and let Sherlock be cared for by someone else?
> 
> Here is the final chapter! Things are becoming heated and stressful, but Sherlock and John had been through plenty of that. Really, get yourself ready for the biggest amount of feels. Ever. 
> 
> (Written while listening to: Falling Slowly by Glen Hansard)

 

“I need Lestrade. Gavin Lestrade.”

“George.”

“Gerald.”

“It’s definitely surname Lestrade!”

“Are you deaf?”

John’s lips pressed firmly against one another as he closed the front door. He had returned from next door’s, a new deli shop, he had taken a look at the slices available and gave a friendly hello to their new neighbour. Sometimes he passed by the next door expecting to see the familiar Speedy’s logo, but he had to remind himself that that was many years ago. Decades ago, and his memory was simply trying to toy with his nostalgia.

Instead of the exciting surprise that he expected from Sherlock with his new groceries, though that in itself was almost impossible, his warm mood went straight out the window. There was no mistaking who he was speaking to on his phone, which somehow he had unlocked once again, despite the safeguards against calling certain numbers that Mycroft had helped put into place.

Sherlock was calling Scotland Yard. Again.

Huffing to himself, John hurried up the stairs as quickly as he could without straining his knee and came face to face with his husband pacing around the living room with his cellphone. “Hang up, Sherlock.” He told himself he wouldn’t yell and he would remain calm, yelling was rarely ever John’s style. It was the time to be reasonable and calm.

Sherlock only glanced at him before turning away and answering into the phone again. “You bumbling idiot, I don’t need some other expert! Find Lestrade-” He quipped, but paused and blinked as he found his hand empty of his phone. John had managed to get onto his tip-toes and had snatched the mobile phone from his hand, ending the call and pocketing it at the same time.

“How dare you! This is an important case, and as my caretaker you are being simply ridiculous, Lestrade needs to know about the clue-“

John blinked a few times himself and swallowed hard, fighting to maintain his patience. “We can do that another time. You can call later, they are busy right now.”

“You don’t understand..” Sherlock’s eyes travelled up and down John’s body, quickly noticing the name tag on his jumper. It was the latest version of the name tag, having been previously labelled John Holmes, but after a few memory meltdowns, demanding questions and much confusion, John reverted to his old surname for the moment. “…John Watson. I need to make this call, John.” That was what the neurologist had suggested and John hesitantly agreed.

“No, you don’t. You can call after a few hours when they are winding down and have more free time.” He countered.

“I don't think you understand that this is an important case.” Sherlock insisted, sighing heavily and moving to block John when he was walking to the kitchen to deposit his deli shopping. “I might even need your help, you look like you have a very sound mind and you have a background in medicine, probably a doctor but you have been out of practice. Not surprising, considering your age.”

The simple observation, which was so close to truth yet the context so far, made John smile for a moment even when he was quite irritated with his husband’s attitude. The years may have greyed his hair and worn his hands, but it had not worn away his snark and intelligence. Just his memory. Sometimes John wondered if he would have preferred it the other way around.   “Yes, I used to be a doctor before I went into this, so I will help you later Sherlock, just like you want me to and we will call.” John simply replied, dodging past him and walking to the counter to unwrap the salami slices he bought, watching Sherlock quickly steal one with two fingers. John chuckled and glanced at him.

Of course, there was never going to be any call to Scotland Yard. John had simply employed one of his strategies when it came to incidences like this. Distract Sherlock and delay whatever troublesome action he wanted to take part in. Seeing that Sherlock picking at the salami was a sufficient distraction, John had succeeded avoiding another situation.

“Just let me make the call quickly.”

At least, he thought he did.

“No.”

“John, this is the vital clue Lestrade has been looking for, the lipstick shade the victim used is actually merely a ‘dupe’ of the original shade—“

“It’s been 21 years since Greg Lestrade has been at Scotland Yard.” John cut him off again for the umpteenth time that day, looking unimpressed as he glared at his husband.

“..what?”

“He’s retired, alright?”

“I’m sure this is a different Lestrade, his name wasn’t Greg, it was Gerald or Gary..”

“It’s bloody Greg!” John snapped, slamming the fridge door closed after he had secured the last of the salami. Jaw tightening, John walked away from the kitchen with quick, heavy steps before going to their bedroom, closing the door. Burying his face in his hands, he shook his head as Mycroft’s words floated around in his mind. Glendale Private. Supervised. Long term visits. Full care. Peaceful. Country.

John shook his head at himself. No, he wouldn’t give in, and he wouldn’t give up on his husband. Not now. Once he had lifted his head again, John was fighting back tears, wrinkling his nose to avoid sniffling as he paced to their study table. Reaching to unlock and open one of the cabinets, he felt a slight wave of guilt wash over his chest as he produced the empty glass and filled it halfway with whisky from a small bottle of Johnny Walker.

After locking the study cabinet, John sighed heavily and sat on the bed with his glass, staring at the swirling brown liquid through teary eyes as ran his free hand over his face.

The moment did not last however, and John couldn’t help but flinch when he felt the weight of the glass change in his hand. Someone was helping him hold it, before taking it away. He recognised the pale hand and the long fingers straight away, no matter how wrinkled they had become. John inhaled sharply to try and hide the fact he had been basically crying, even when it was no use. Sherlock set the glass on a nearby dresser and then returned to his husband, taking his withered hands into his own, tugging at them softly.

John raised his eyebrow at the first tug, but at the second tug he finally understood that Sherlock was encouraging him to stand up and follow him. One hand then let go so they could comfortably walk to the living room together. Minutes ago, the lights were bright as the sun had just set, in both the living room and kitchen, a cold white light the John never really liked.

Instead, they had been replaced by the roaring fire of the fireplace. Warm and glowing. Just a second later, John noticed the quiet sounds of Valse Sentimental, though oddly, it wasn’t his husband playing it this time. They paused by the fire and Sherlock bowed, offering his hand to John. A half-smile tugged at the corners of John’s lips as he took his hand, settling into position like they first did nearly five decades ago. Being the shorter, John laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, holding his other hand as his husband held him gently by the waist.

Together, they swayed. Not a single word pierced the air between the both of them since it wasn’t needed. All John could hear was the rhythmic violin, caressing their bodies with its melody, subtly encouraging them to move closer and closer, just to sway a little more. He stared up at those icy blue irises and felt his lips quiver slightly, they were looking back at him with a gaze that was love and apology at the same time.

He closed his eyes for a moment as Sherlock leaned in to press a warm kiss to his forehead. Then he was pulling back. John noticed that now, it was not only him with brimming eyes. Sherlock’s icy blues seemed to be melting into salty water.

“My mind palace…has become a prison, John. I’m sorry. But I’m always looking…”

“…looking for the exit to find my way back to you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the end! Though not the end for Sherlock and John, the strength of their love wins against the test of time yet again.
> 
> What did you think of the ending line? This line is simply what inspired me to write the whole story in the first place, actually! How were the feels? I would love to hear from you guys, any reviews and thoughts would be much appreciated!


End file.
